Chapter 2: Lost in Time

The world reassembled itself around Alaric with all the grace of a collapsing house of cards. He landed in a sprawling field, the impact jarring his bones and knocking the wind from his lungs. The scent of fresh grass filled his nostrils, a stark contrast to the burning wood and dust he had left behind.

Groaning, he pushed himself upright, wincing at the aches in his muscles. The Zeton sat heavy in his palm, its grooves now dull and lifeless. What the hell did I get myself into? he wondered, staring at the antique disc that had upended his reality.

The sun hung high in a sky so blue it hurt his eyes. In the distance, Alaric could see banners flapping in the breeze, their bright colors stark against the green expanse of the field. Knights in gleaming armor sparred with each other, their swords clashing with rhythmic precision. A wooden stage had been set up nearby, where nobles in elaborate attire observed the combatants with varying degrees of interest.

Alaric’s brain struggled to process the scene. He had seen medieval festivals before, but this felt real—raw, unfiltered, and dangerous. The clang of steel, the smell of sweat and horses, the intense focus on the knights’ faces—it was as authentic as it got.

Before he could decide what to do next, a rough voice barked behind him. "Oi! You there!"

Alaric turned to find a stocky man clad in a patched leather jerkin stomping toward him. His face was weathered, his eyes like two chips of flint. A sword rested at his hip, and his hand hovered dangerously close to the hilt.

"Who are you?" the man demanded, his accent thick and unfamiliar. "You dress like no man I've ever seen."

Alaric glanced down at his modern clothes—black cargo pants, a fitted turtleneck, and lightweight boots designed for silent getaways. They stood out like a neon sign in this world of chainmail and leather. Think fast, he told himself, pasting on a confident smile.

"I'm a traveler," he said, echoing the same lie he'd used on the villagers. "I've come from... distant lands to witness this tournament." He gestured broadly to the knights, hoping to distract the man from further scrutiny.

The stocky man narrowed his eyes. "A traveler, you say? Dressed in the garb of a court jester's fever dream?" He stepped closer, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. "We don’t take kindly to spies or sorcerers here."

Alaric’s pulse quickened. The last thing he needed was a fight with a medieval bouncer. "No sorcery here," he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Just a simple merchant with an eye for... fine weaponry." His gaze flicked to the knights’ sparring match, an idea forming. "I heard tales of the great Sir Axton competing today. I've come to see if he truly lives up to the legends."

The man’s suspicion wavered, replaced by a glint of pride. "Sir Axton, you say? Aye, he’s the pride of our lands," he said, chest puffing out. "But don’t think to slip away so easily. If you’re a merchant, you must have wares to show."

Alaric’s mind scrambled for a solution. He had no wares, only the Zeton—and he wasn’t about to hand over a time-bending relic to some medieval guard. "My wares are... of a different sort," he said, stalling. "Exotic spices and silks from the East. They are being transported separately. I only carry my ledger."

The man frowned but seemed to buy it, at least for the moment. "Ledger or no, you’ll have to speak to Sir Cavan. He’ll decide if you’re telling the truth or not," he said, jerking his head toward a nearby tent. "This way."

Alaric didn’t like the idea of being dragged to another authority figure, but he didn’t have much choice. He followed the man, hoping he could spin his way out of this mess before things got bloody.

The tent was spacious, adorned with banners bearing the sigil of a golden hawk on a crimson field. Inside, a tall, broad-shouldered knight stood in front of a long wooden table. His armor gleamed, polished to a mirror-like finish, and a scar cut across his left eyebrow, giving him a perpetual scowl. This, Alaric assumed, was Sir Cavan.

Sir Cavan looked up as Alaric entered, his blue eyes narrowing. "Who is this?" he demanded, his voice deep and commanding.

The stocky guard bowed. "A traveler, sir. Claims to be a merchant from distant lands, but he’s dressed like no merchant I’ve ever seen. Thought it best to bring him to you."

Cavan’s gaze swept over Alaric, taking in every detail. Alaric felt as though he were being dissected by those piercing eyes. "A merchant, you say?" Cavan stepped forward, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. "What proof do you have of your trade?"

Alaric swallowed. "As I told your guard, my wares are en route. I carry only my ledger." He forced a chuckle, as if the situation were an amusing misunderstanding. "A shame, really. I had hoped to exchange gifts with Sir Axton himself. I've heard he enjoys fine spices."

Cavan's expression didn't change, but Alaric could tell the knight was weighing his words carefully. "Sir Axton is indeed fond of spices," Cavan said slowly. "But you’ll forgive me if I don’t take a stranger at his word. You see, we have enemies—spies who would see our tournament ruined. I cannot let you wander freely."

Alaric’s heart sank. He’d dealt with suspicious guards before, but knights in full armor were another matter. "I mean no harm," he insisted. "Perhaps there is something I can do to prove my intentions?"

Cavan’s lips curled into a humorless smile. "Indeed there is. If you wish to earn our trust, you’ll compete in the tournament." He clapped his hands, and a squire hurried over, carrying a set of dented, mismatched armor. "Put this on. If you’re truly harmless, then surely you won’t mind facing our finest in a duel."

Alaric’s stomach did a flip. He was no stranger to danger, but medieval combat wasn’t exactly in his wheelhouse. Still, he had no choice but to agree. "Very well," he said, trying to sound confident. "I’ll fight. But I’m afraid I’ve never worn armor before. Could someone assist me?"

Cavan chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth. "Squire! Help our new friend suit up. We wouldn’t want him to embarrass himself."

The squire, a boy no older than sixteen, approached with a nervous smile. "This way, sir," he said, leading Alaric to a corner of the tent. As the squire began strapping him into the heavy, ill-fitting armor, Alaric’s mind raced for a plan. What have I gotten myself into?

The squire finished fastening the last piece of armor and stepped back. Alaric felt like he was trapped in a metal coffin, the weight pressing down on his shoulders. The helmet restricted his vision, and he struggled to move without toppling over.

"Good luck," the squire whispered, his eyes full of pity.

Alaric took a deep breath and stepped out into the sunlight. The crowd had gathered around the sparring ring, eager to see the newcomer challenge one of their champions. Sir Cavan watched with a gleam of amusement in his eyes, clearly expecting Alaric to fail.

"Presenting our newest contestant!" Cavan announced, his voice booming. "A merchant from distant lands, here to prove his mettle!"

The crowd erupted into laughter, and Alaric felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. But he forced himself to focus. He was a thief, a master of escape and improvisation. If he could outthink museum security systems, he could outmaneuver a knight—maybe.

His opponent stepped forward: a mountain of a man clad in full plate armor, his helmet adorned with a plume of crimson feathers. The knight raised his sword in salute, the blade catching the light. Alaric gulped. This is going to be interesting.

The crowd fell silent as the referee raised a hand. "Begin!" he shouted, and the duel commenced.